It is with a certain kind of benign sarcasm, like abandoned pillow-talk; A solemn introspection,
resistance and rebellion during the change of seasons, that we runaway, run towards
the wild horizons, to visit the black crow at the hospital, who snickers and thanks us
for all our well wishes, for our prayers and nightmares. You bow your head and 
tell him it's simply about survival on a daily level; About a sense of humor and
being sensitive, as the last of sunlight at day's end spills into your refrigerator.

                                         *

A little lovely cherub hovering over the holiday table, who has us all captivated,
pulls out a tooth one by one, silhouetted in front of candles giving a speech
for the ages. Of course we forget it all, as the smug and shattered dinner guests 
are all in denial and playing roles (Here success appears measured by contrived
and pithy punchlines, really the sign of the unoriginal; Of the scarred soul) 
with incestuous desires and throwing out cheap and crude and transparent
innuendoes; The most charming, in fact, the most lonesome and troubled. 

                                         *

You kiss your burning bride on the mouth while she magically mourns the future
in a very mature and noble manner, disguised by your inability to be her savior,
yet more so a caustic comedian mocking culture. She has always gotten this
a bit mixed up from her brutal background and innocent imagination, yet couldn't
care less, and confidently and absurdly claims to find this act to be most attractive. 

                                        *

It's all in the moment, in a whisper, in the season.
You know this and go with stars and sentiment. 

                                         *

The philanthropist and narcissist and damaged daughters and sons
all go their own separate ways home through eerie silhouetted industrial
rivers and cathedrals; Through winking woods and sacred slums; Through
billboards and bums; Through blinking skylines on the horizon, which stand
like rows of dominoes after brooding reflective, and catching a good buzz,
to their safe sanctuaries in the suburbs at the onset of Winter and 
close of Autumn; To their midnight homes to mansions in the sun.

                                          *

Whole towns engulfed in a blazing crimson, lingering leaf piles,
and haunted, holy bridges burning brightly in the distance; It
is clear you need nothing, no-one, craving phantoms, as the
church bells and foghorns remind you you are not alone...

Joseph Reich is a practicing leprechaun. He has had works which have appeared in such literary journals as, "Poesy," "Dispatch," "Falling Star," "Color Wheel," "Bareback," "And Then," "Graffiti Rag," "Main Street Rag,""Bouillabaisse," "Decanto," "Rogue's Scholar," "Poetry Motel," "The Beat," "The Potomac"  "Poetry Super Highway" "Panic Brixton Poetry," "Istanbul Literature Review," "Stirring," "CC & D," "Down In The Dirt" and "Ascent Aspirations."